The Foolish Moon
by Chibi Binasu-chan
Summary: Oh, Hamlet's words were beautiful in their own disgusting way. To die, to sleep, perchance to dream. But dreams had never found me amusing. Only nightmares comforted me in the night. Only the moon saw me as I truly was. Oh, to sleep. To sleep. To dream.
1. No Moon

_Chapter One

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_

A dark night.

But then, aren't all nights dark? Isn't night just another word for darkness? Perhaps. Perhaps not. They do not know the answer to such a simple question. They will never know the answer to such a simple question. Such is their fate. Such is their bliss. Perhaps. Perhaps not. They will never know the feeling of icy cold wind upon their neck as they ride into the night on a valiant steed. Never know how the moon follows them as they ride away from civilization; away from human connection. Away from everything.

Such as I did on that night of disaster. That night of sorrow and despair. On that night, everything I had ever dreamed of was torn away from me. But I had to let her go. I did not deserve her. I do not deserve anything. And so I rode upon my trusty horse in the dead of night, followed only by the moon.

I have wondered why she followed me that night. Why did she not say to the world that I was dead? Why did she find me interesting enough to follow? The moon has retained her old magic, and I have not. She knows I am jealous. And still she followed me as I rode away from all I had ever known. Through a forest, through a fire, through a maze of emotions and a tsunami of tears, the moon followed me, and the moon only.

Oh, Hamlet's words were beautiful in their own disgusting way. To die, to sleep, perchance to dream. But dreams have never found me amusing. Dreams have only lingered for a flash and disappeared into the darkness before I could ever grasp them. Like fairies, dreams have avoided me. Only nightmares have given me comfort.

The stars did not glow that night. The moon was the only light to guide me to my destination. Where I went and how I got there is something no one will ever know, but get there, I did, and I stayed the night. It was a lonely cabin, far, far away from the world of humans. Away from those seeking to end to my life. As much as I wanted to surrender to them, my pride was too big a chunk to swallow. I had to survive.

That night was torture. I stayed awake through it all, unable to sleep for fear of horrible nightmares, come to haunt me; remind me of my sins. Though God was never there for me while in my sorrow, my sins made Him angry. I paced the floor for a good portion of three hours and then sat on a bench and looked up at the moon.

The moon stared at me, and I stared at her. She was most likely wondering why I looked so much like her. Yes, I had half of the moon's magic in me, the other half was human. Normal. Unimportant.

Unsurprisingly, the moon did not say anything. She merely stared at me until the sun turned the sky into the color of blood. The morning's brisk air seeped into the cabin and I rode off again, as if on a mission. And no one could stop me. Many hours later, I arrived at a clearing in the middle of the woods. It was the perfect place. All I needed was contact with an old friend.

Nadir was always there when I needed him the most, and so finding him was no trouble at all. Negotiations on contracts and employees were not a problem for Nadir. He tried not to ask any questions of me, but I knew he desperately wanted to.

"Erik, my old friend-"

"Simply state your mind, Nadir. I will have no beating around the bush," I told him sharply. He would always skip around in his conversation, careful not to disturb me, but doing so anyway.

He sighed, "My friend, you are making an un-wise decision." I was silent, and I could see his hand in a fist, trembling. "It is true that you have committed crimes no man would ever forgive you for," he continued. "But you do not deserve such punishment! Do not hurt yourself again, Erik. Do not torture yourself again."

"When I want another man's opinion I shall ask for it!" I raged. Such a weak and insolent man to think so little of me! "The phantom of the opera can handle himself well enough in whatever he does! He does not need help." I stormed to the other side of the room.

Nadir watched me as I turned my back on him to look out the window to see the rich city of Paris, "But you do need help, Erik. If it had not been for me, you would not be able to build your mansion in the clearing of a forest."

I turned as if to snap a snide remark, until I looked into his eyes. They held truth. I looked away from him. I looked at anything; just not him. "Architecture is my last hope. My last dream. If I cannot fulfill at least one dream, then dreams must not actually exist." I barely heard the floorboards creak as Nadir walked over to put his hand on my shoulder.

"My friend, I will help you with anything you need. You cannot have your love, you cannot have your dreams, but you will have your mansion. And one other thing, Erik," there was a slight smile upon his lips.

I frowned, "And what on Earth would that be?"

Nadir shook his head, "Your music."

And so I made preparations to build a large organ room in the west wing of the mansion. Designs and blueprints were easy to make. They were very much like the Opera Populaire; with minor differences in texture and size. The opera was always on my mind, and yet it wasn't. The beginnings of the construction of my mansion started only days after the final blueprints were drawn. I did not have time to think of the opera.

Very little comes to mind for the next few months. Construction went fast and I stayed with Nadir, away from the innocent eyes that had never seen such a hideous beast such as myself. I had a garden planted, a rose garden. Everything went according to plan, it was almost a miracle.

Finally, almost a year and dozens of thousands of francs later, the mansion was completed and I moved in along with a few servants Nadir had picked out. I refused to allow them to see me. A maid came every morning and night with water and food, which she slid under the door I had especially designed to do so. I stayed in the music/library room every day. My new organ, though never comparable to the organ I had in my underground lair, was nearly perfect and almost the same. My library was packed full with old books and scores of the famous writers who never knew how to write a song and actually feel it. They would never know.

But I didn't play my organ. The mansion was disturbingly quiet. I preferred it that way, though there were moments when I missed watching the performance each night or listening Madam Giry yell at the little ballet rats. But those days were over.

The construction of the mansion took nearly a year, a very short amount of time when one looks at the actual thing and tries to imagine a hundred men working on it. Fall was slowly turning into winter and one day, snowflakes fell upon my mansion. I looked outside my window to see the two young girls whom dusted every part of the mansion each day, playing around in the snow. Their laughter did not miss my ears.

At that moment, I remembered Christine's laughter. It was a rare and beautiful sight. She was young, but serious. When she laughed, it was as if the heavens were falling. I began to feel an awful tug in my chest. A year earlier, I had been hearing Christine's laughter. But she was not alone in her giggles. There was a young man laughing with her.

I suddenly collapsed onto the floor, the pain was too unbearable. There was somebody knocking on my door, but I could not find my voice to tell them to sod off. The world truly became dark for me, and for a moment, I thought I was dead.

But I was not. When I opened my eyes, an old man was peering curiously at me. A doctor. It occurred to me at that moment that the right side of my face felt extremely cold. My mask was missing. I tried to cover my face, but found that I could not move without feeling the most pain I had ever felt in my life. The doctor frowned, "Monsieur, I suggest not moving."

"Yes, thank you," I hissed through clenched teeth.

He stood up, "Do you know your situation?" When I did not answer, he continued, "You have experienced a heart attack. A man of your age should have been much more prepared for something like this." Was he mocking me? "You were alone in a locked room with only ten servants in the house. Do you realize what would have happened had a maid not checked on you?"

I did not say anything, I merely turned my head to the right, and so he could not see my face. This man made me feel like a child being scolded for eating one too many candies.

"Do not turn away, I have seen your face," he told me. "If your face is the reason for your solitude, monsieur, I would call you a fool."

I glared daggers into his skull and growled; "Only a fool would say such things to me."

The doctor smiled, "But I am no fool, monsieur, I am a doctor. I have seen many like you, but none of them went to the extremes you have gone to. You must have had a depressing life."

"Are you now a physiatrist or God?" I sneered.

"No, monsieur. I am a man willing to help you, as I have done for the past three days you have been out."

"I do not need your help, old man!" I sat up too quickly, cried out in pain and fell back onto the bed. The doctor sighed, but did not move from the middle of the room. My position on the bed was uncomfortable, but I did not care. "Go away," I told him.

The doctor picked up his bag quietly, "You will never have any happiness in life if you never ask for help from others and only rely on yourself. Think about that for a while." And with that said, he walked out the door.

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's Notes: **At first, this was supposed to be a one-shot. But then it sort of grew. So I hope that you enjoy it, and I hope that you review. Feedback, comments, complaints, critique, it's all welcome. Thank you everybody.


	2. Half Moon

_Chapter Two_

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It took me two weeks to fully recover from my heart attack. The mansion, which I had now resigned to call the Rose, was as disturbingly quiet as ever. It began to drive me insane. My organ was suddenly of curious interest.

The keys were hard and unworn. It would take years to fully make them feel like my other fingers. I had to retune the organ and dust it thoroughly; it had been so lonely since coming into that room. Slowly, I played a song, note by note. I had never played the song before, never wrote it down. I simply played whatever came to mind. My best music came from that.

Words began to form in my head. They always did, but these words were different. As if they told the story of my soul. _Shamed into solitude, shunned by the multitude. _I thought back on everything I had done to the world, and everything the world had done so cruelly to me. _I learned to listen, in my dark, my heart heard music. _

I opened my mouth and the words slipped out as if I were in a trance. "I longed to teach the world, rise up and reach the world." I paused and whispered, "No one would listen, I alone could hear the music." Oh, to die, to sleep, perchance to dream! "Then at last, a voice in the gloom, seemed to cry, 'I hear you'." I became stronger, my voice soaring louder, "I hear your fears, your torment and your tears!"

I held back my tears unsuccessfully. How long it had been since I had played music. How long it had been since I had sang. The last words to come out of my mouth were, _it's over now, the music of the night. _But they were wrong. "She saw my loneliness," Oh Christine. "Shared in my emptiness, no one would listen, no one but her, heard as the outcast hears."

I shook my head, crying, "No one but her. . . heard as the outcast hears. . ." The song was over and the disturbing silence fell back into place. But it was interrupted by a new sound. A sniffle.

Spinning around sharply, I came face-to-face with two large green eyes; tears spilling from them. "Oh Master," she cried with a tiny squeaky voice. "Oh why, why must you be so sad?"

At first, I knew not what to do. How had she gotten in here without me noticing? Was I actually fully recovered from my heart attack? How much had she heard? But I had to do something fast, for the little girl was literally sobbing. "Now, now," I told her with a silky voice. "Do not cry, little poppet. There is no reason to cry."

She looked up at me, into my eyes. She was one of the only people who had ever looked into my eyes without first looking at my mask. The only other person who had done so was Christine. She hiccupped a sob, "But Master, you are crying!"

I stared at her for a moment, and then threw my arms around her, encouraged when she wrapped her little arms around my neck. I picked her up as I stood. "You are a little angel," I whispered to her, and she hiccupped again. "You are too innocent to cry for yourself, you only cry for others. Now, now, little angel. Blow your nose."

She blew, obediently. I had never been good with children, but there was something about her that was so curiously strange. She was not like Christine, when Christine was so little. "Now you must run back to your mother," I set her down at the door. "Be a good girl, alright? No more tears."

She smiled like a true little angel, and pitter-pattered away with dainty little feet. She was about to turn a corner, when suddenly she turned back around, "Oh, I forgot! Bye bye!"

I smiled back at her, and whispered, "Bye bye." She disappeared around the corner. I closed the door and sat back down upon the organ bench. Such a sweet little girl she was. She and her family lived in the mansion, along with the other family of servants. She was not a servant herself, she was too young. I cannot remember how old she was back then.

I turned to my organ and began to play a sonatina.

The weeks went by quickly, and I soon found myself looking at a great many of gray hairs. Of course my wig covered them, but they were still disturbing. Another reminder of my coming age. Nadir had ordered there be a servant right next door to my room in case of another heart attack. How annoying. But I could do nothing about it.

The Rose became older, just as I did. People were beginning to notice it. They were wondering who the master of such a ridiculously huge mansion in the middle of nowhere would be. Anybody would wonder. Especially the press.

"Oh please, just a few minutes with the old man!" a very young man called.

Rubius, the steward, merely stated in his monotone voice, which drove me completely insane, "The Master will not see anyone."

"Ah, guess he's all tuckered out in his bed, eh?" the crowd laughed. "Who does he think he is? We're freezing our bums out here, just to have a look at him. Doesn't he want his name in the paper?"

"The Master," Rubius repeated. "Will not see anyone."

The excitement died down with the excuse that I was a retired old architect stuck in bed. Which was almost true, except I wasn't quite as old as I appeared to be and I was only in bed until I was quite sure I was recovered from my heart attack. Every once in a while, I would see the little angel playing in the garden or eating sweets behind her mother's back. Of course, I was the one who put the sweets there for her to find.

And every day I wrote more and more music. I refused to write an actual opera, but all of the songs I wrote somehow went together. It was hard to resist not coming up with a story. A very familiar story.

"Angel of music, you denied me, turning from true beauty," I sang, looking out the window. She belonged with the viscount. She belonged to the viscount. "Angel of music, do not shun me, come to me strange angel." No matter what I did, the song played over and over again in my head.

And one day, I heard the little angel humming it. She was tiptoeing her silly little dance around the ballroom floor, humming the tune with her squeaky voice. I watched her, silently, vowing never again to sing the song. Such a mistake did not need to be done twice.

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. But Gerry? . . . now that's a different story.

**Author's Notes: **Yeah, uh, it was short, but that's okay. I hope this chapter was a bit more clear than the last one. Also, did anybody notice that I rhymed in my last author's notes? Wow, ain't that spiffy!. . . .Okay, I'm going now. Please review, I mean, PLEASE review. I don't care about numbers, I just want some feedback people, lemme know how I'm doin'. Cuz if I don't have feedback, I won't get any better. Thank you.


	3. Full Moon

_Chapter Three

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_

Life was like a rose. First a blossom, and then a beautiful blooming flower with color and shape. But the bloom does not last long. The outer petals slowly fall off, one by one, and the inner petals shrivel up until they are brown and old. As the years went by, I began to feel exactly like a rose. My long bony fingers had slight wrinkles upon them, as did my forehead and the corners of my eyes. My wig was starting to look out of place; I decided to order a slightly lighter shade. My real hair was turning gray and falling out.

The Rose was starting to look normal. I only went out to see Nadir, for he made me promise to come visit him, for he did not like the forest. We would smoke our cigars and play chess. Nadir would tell me the latest news, only rarely bringing up the Changy's. They had two children then, happily living quietly outside of Paris. I did not give any remark.

Nadir glanced at me every five seconds until I coughed, signaling he could speak. "Erik," he stated. "You do not look well. You are thin. You are pale."

I took his rook with my bishop. "I feel fine, thank you."

"We are both getting older, my friend," Nadir said quietly. "There is nothing we can do to stop it."

I said nothing, merely moved my pawn forward, getting closer to my goal. Our conversation always ended with a dreaded silence, until Nadir would say something more, about something else. But that day he continued.

"Erik, you must stop joking with yourself. You treat yourself as if you will live forever. You will not. You must realize that," he sighed. "Do you intend to live forever?" he asked, almost desperately.

"I will live as long as I am supposed to, my friend," I told him deeply. "As will you. As will everyone. That is the fate of human beings." I moved my pawn forward once more, onto the opposite side of the board, "My knight back, if you please."

Nadir grudgingly switched the pawn with a knight. "Erik," he said, but could not go on. I knew he wouldn't.

The little angel at my mansion was turning into a lovely young lady. I adored her like a daughter. She sang the one song over and over again, with the few words she knew, "Angel of music, my protector, come to me strange angel!" It was hard to resist. Every time I heard her sing, I wanted to teach her more, I wanted to give her the voice of an angel.

But I could not.

"Angel of music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory!"

"Stop that racket, will you? The Master is sleeping!"

"Forgive me, Madam Latre, I could not help it."

"Get along with your dusting, girl! You're a servant, not a Prima Donna!"

The woman angered me so, but I did not stop her. When I played the organ, I heard small footsteps pitter-patter down the hallway to stand in front of my door. But I did not open it. I thought, then, that I would regret it. But every time I played the organ, those little footsteps kept asking me for more. Kept asking me to teach them my music. Kept asking until I could no longer stand it!

"Well? Are you simply going to stand there and gawk like a school-girl or are you going to come in here and learn music?" I opened the door. She stared at me for a moment, and then tiptoed inside awkwardly. I closed the door. "Forgive me," I told her with the smooth voice I was able to retain even in my age. "I am not a patient man. Do you wish to learn?"

She paused a moment, as if she didn't understand the question, and then nodded her head ferociously. "Oh yes! I wish it very much!"

I nodded to a chair beside the organ bench. "I am sorry," I said awkwardly. "I have forgotten your name."

"Angelina," she told me. "When my father was alive, he used to call me Angel though."

I smiled slightly, wondering if she even remembered that day she walked into my room. "Of course. Then I shall call you Angel as well, if you do not mind." She shook her head, and I was pleased. "Very well. Let us begin with scales."

And so, the little angel learned to sing. She had a delicate and sweet voice. She was as innocent as silver. I would hear her practicing her songs as she dusted the mansion, and when she was yelled at, she replied, "So sorry. Master's orders." And I would grin.

"Master?" Angel asked me one night, "Why do you not sing?"

I glanced up at her, "I stopped singing long ago, little Angel."

"Yes, but why?" Oh, her questions! They drove me mad, and yet I answered them.

"Because it reminds me of someone I once knew." The room fell silent, and I knew she was thinking up another question. "If you wish so horribly to hear me sing, I shall sing one song for you, but no more." When she nodded, I took in a deep breath, "Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my, guidance."

She recognized the song and grinned, "Angel of music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory."

"Have you forgotten your angel?" I asked, looking away from her, a choking feeling in my chest.

"Angel oh sing, for me, my angel," she improvised. "Come to me strange angel."

"I am your angel of music," I half whispered, half hissed, the song taking control of me, "Come to me angel of music. . .No!" I stood up sharply and turned away from her. I had seen the look in her eyes. The same look Christine had whenever I sang that song. "No more," I pleaded, almost desperately. "Oh God, no more!"

I knew she watched me, but I could not turn back to her. She had heard my voice, and now she would fall under my spell every time I sang; just like Christine. Just like Christine! Why oh why did I allow myself to give in? Why do I teach this girl? This innocent and pure girl!

"Wandering child," I heard a whisper. "So lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance."

My back was still turned to her, "Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze."

"I am your angel of music. Come to me angel of music," a small figure stood behind me. "Master," she whispered. "Why do you turn away? Do you think your voice is not beautiful? Is it . . ." she fidgeted. "Is it your face?"

I turned swiftly to her, to look into those large green eyes, "My face?" She had never asked about the mask before. None of my servants asked about the mask; Nadir had told them strictly not to. But this innocent girl with innocent green eyes did not know, did not understand. I shook my head, "No, little angel. It is not my face. It's just that. . ." Her eyes pouted when I paused, "It's just that, that song reminds me of someone."

Angel turned and sat down in her chair, looking at her hands. I knew she was thinking of a question; she always looked at her hands when she was thinking of a question. "You loved her?" she asked.

My eyes widened, "Yes."

She looked up at me, "But, she didn't love you back? That's mean." Oh, the thoughts of a thirteen year old girl on love. "Was it because of your face?"

I sighed and sat down on the bench. She asked me questions I would kill a man for asking, and yet I answered her anyway. As if she knew I couldn't keep anything from her. "Partly. But she also loved another man."

"Oh," she sighed as well, copying me. "Did she break your heart?" A simple question, but she was the only one to ever ask it.

I stared at the vase of red roses on the table across the room, "Yes."

The room was silent for a moment. I thought that maybe she was going to leave. If she left, I would be able to sit alone in my sorrow. To be truly alone though, is to be in a box, and the mansion was a fairly big box, and there were other people in it, so I was never truly alone. Suddenly, she was standing in front of me, and then she wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her little face into my chest.

I couldn't move. I froze. She was hugging a monster without knowing it. A killer, a Devil's Child. I looked down at her, "What are you doing?"

She smiled, "I'm hugging you, to make you feel better."

And then I held onto her tightly and cried into her shoulder. I had never been able to fully cry in front of any other person, including children. But this little angel made me feel ready to tell her anything she ever wanted to know. I held onto her as though she were the only other person on Earth and if I let go, I would never see her again. I held onto her and I wept.

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's Notes: **Ahem. I am not the kind of person who begs for reviews. . . Ahem. But uh, hello? Are you people out there? If you don't like my story, TELL ME WHY! Don't just say, "Aw, that's a bad story, I'm gonna find another one." and not review! Please, even if you don't like it, review and tell me why! That way, I can change it, or do it differently next time or something. Please review. Thanks.


	4. Old Moon

_Chapter Four_

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The little angel and I formed a bond closer than any bond I had ever had before. She called me Papa, I called her little angel. She never asked about Christine, or my mask for that matter, again. She knew it was a delicate subject, and I admired her for that. The years went on, my little angel's voice becoming smooth and silky. I began telling her stories of the opera. 

"And there would be millions of people watching you," I'd tell her and she'd giggle. "And there you would be standing, singing your soul to the skies! Then, once your solo was over, everybody would clap and whistle in praise and you would curtsy so lovely in your beautiful gown. For my little angel can only have the most beautiful of gowns to match her gorgeous skin, hair and eyes."

"Papa!" she whined. "You know I'll never sing in an opera."

I smiled, "Oh yes you will, I shall see to it." And I did, for my little angel was no longer little. She was sixteen years old when she preformed in her first opera at the Opera Populaire. In the last twelve years, I hadn't even thought about the Opera Populaire. But Angel wanted me to watch her. And so I decided to pay my ex-managers a little visit.

"Monsieur, Box 5 if you please," I told them beneath a large hat and cloak, disguising my voice.

Andre immediately shook his head, "Oh no, monsieur, monsieur, that box is haunted! Box 4 is much more lovely, with a much better view. That will be about two-"

"I will have Box 5. . . monsieur," I told him. "And it shall be empty for me, and me alone. I am not afraid of . . . phantoms." I'm still not sure if Andre realized who I was or not, but he gave me the box for a much higher price, though it didn't matter. As long as I could see my little angel, I would pay any price, for she was worth everything.

"Poor fool, he makes me laugh, ha ha ha ha ha!" Angel sang behind a fan. I smiled. She was the perfect countess, much better than Carlotta could ever be. I looked at the audience. They loved her.

"If he knew the truth he'd never ever go!"

Angel quickly became a success, but decided to continue to live at the Rose, and not the opera house. Although it was a long carriage ride every day, she insisted upon staying with me. "Papa, what if something were to happen to you? I'd be too far away to help. No, I must stay."

Why everyone insisted upon helping me, I'll never know. But I grew tired of fighting it. In fact, I grew tired of fighting just about everything until the day Angel came home with a huge smile on her face. "Papa, you'll never guess! You'll never guess!"

I smiled, "You're right, I'll never guess. I suppose you'll have to tell me."

She pranced slightly around the room, holding in giggles. "Well, my carriage didn't come today. So I stood in front of the opera house for about half an hour until a man walked up to me and asked, 'Mademoiselle, do you need a ride?' And then he ordered his carriage and took me all the way home! And then I thanked him and he kissed my hand and I wasn't wearing any gloves! Oh Papa, it was amazing!"

I stared at her for a moment, repeating everything in my head, "You got into a carriage belonging to a man you didn't know? A man you had never met before? A man who could have been a kidnapper, a killer, a rapist-"

She stomped, "Oh Papa-"

"No!" I stood up, furious. "What the devil were you thinking? He could have done anything! He could have killed you or taken you far, far away! Why did you trust him?"

"He seemed trustworthy to me!" she cried.

I shook my head, "They all seem trustworthy until you get far enough from people and then he pulls out a knife! I cannot believe you, Angelina! I just cannot believe that you could be so stupid! Not all men are to be trusted!"

"Then how can I trust you?" she screamed. Everything fell silent except for Angel's tiny gasps and sobs. She glared at me long and hard, and when I didn't say anything, she spun around, left the room and slammed the door behind her. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temple. It had been painful all of that day, and it had just gotten worse.

My little angel. I could have lost her. I shook my head. She was too innocent to understand the situation she had just put herself in. If that man had laid his hands on her. . . I vowed if he ever harmed her I would kill him myself!

A few days went by and I didn't see my little angel. She left in the early mornings, and I could not get up earlier than that, and then came home in the evening, and shut herself in her room. One night I couldn't stand it any longer and I knocked on her door.

"Yes?"

"Angel."

"Go away."

"No," I opened the door. She sat at her vanity with only her under-dress on. She put her arms around herself, but I came in anyway. "My angel, you have been taking rides from that man every morning and night, haven't you?"

She looked away from me. I looked upon her body through father's eyes. She had grown into a beautiful young woman; any man would be a fool to pass her over.

"What is his name?"

She paused, "Algernon Burel." It was hard not to snort at the name. Algernon? "His father owns a smaller opera house on the outskirts of Paris and they are considering buying the Opera Populaire from Monsieurs Andre and Firmin. He gives me roses after each performance." She looked up at me with sad green eyes, "You won't make me stop seeing him, will you Papa?"

I stared into her eyes and took in a deep breath, "Once I have met the young gentlemen, I shall inform you. But not before, alright?" I kneeled down before her when she nodded sadly, "I only do this, my little angel, because I love you. Alright?"

She smiled slightly, "Okay."

It wasn't until later that I realized my predicament. I had just agreed to meet with a man whom was obviously of higher standards and of good parentage. I remember, I could just imagine myself, gray hair and a white mask upon the right side of my face, asking him, "Who the hell are you, and what do you want with my little angel?" But my little angel assured me that he wouldn't question my mask, he was too well brought up to be so rude.

And so I met with this Algernon Burel the next day, and found him to be a most charming young man, and certainly not a kidnapper, killer or rapist. He asked me for permission to court my little angel. I remembered the look in her eye when she told me his name, and consented.

"Oh, Papa!" Angel cried with happiness, "I love you so much!" And she kissed the good side of my face a hundred times over. Only then did she actually look at my mask. It was as if she had never seen it before, and was just now realizing it was there. "Oh Papa," she sighed. "Why do you wear such a dreadfully uncomfortable looking thing?"

"Because I must, my little angel," I told her.

"Hosh-posh," she told me, and put her hands on my face. I stiffened, readying myself for the scream. Suddenly, the mask was gone, and Angel looked at my marred skin. She felt it with her hands and kissed it with her lips, "Papa, what do you speak of?" Her question was so simple, and yet I couldn't answer. "Why must you wear half of the moon on your face?" And then she threw my mask onto the couch. "You do not need that. Look into the mirror."

And so she walked me over to the mirror I was forced to put into my room. I looked at myself. My face was pale and wrinkled. Even the right side of my face was pale, unlike so long ago when it was a deep red. The marring of my skin looked like. . . wrinkles.

"Good God," I whispered. "Is that me?"

And then, Angel laughed sadly as though she had waited her whole life to hear me say that. "Oh Papa, now you see," she told me. "Now you see how beautiful you are."

It was true, though it looked like I was extremely old with wrinkles, most of my face was still as handsome as it had been twenty years before. I smiled, "I haven't looked at my face without the mask in over ten years." I turned to her, "Thank you so much, my little angel. I love you." And I hugged her for a long time. We simply stood there in front of the mirror, hugging, and nothing could tear us apart.

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. How many times do I have to say it?

**Author's Notes: **Hello people. I know you're reading this, and at least that gives me some comfort, but you know, feedback is always good. Well, at least you're reading it. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you. Plus: Check out _phasmatis lupus_'s stories! They're awesome, and much better than mine. Much better. So check em out.


	5. Dead Moon

_Chapter Five

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_

The years rolled by quickly, because life was happy. Algernon Burel courted my little angel for a year, and then proposed. She consented, I consented, and they were married in the spring. Algernon did not buy the Opera Populaire, instead, he made his father's Opera house, called the Opera Rose, even greater than the Opera Populaire, and made Angel the star of every performance. And she loved it.

I began to go to her performances without my mask on, and nobody looked at me twice. I was simply an old man, and I had become a kind old man, who gave a quarter to one of the little ruffian boys playing in the street. It somehow made me happy, to be normal, and yet unique. I still composed music; I wrote most the operas preformed at the Opera Rose and had my name in the paper. Everybody knew me as Erik.

It crossed my mind that the Viscount was probably reading the paper one day until he suddenly saw the headline: "ERIK, AND THE ANGEL OF MUSIC!" I laughed at the thought of him spitting out his expensive coffee all over the newspaper and himself, quickly covering himself up and looking like a fool in front of his servants and wife.

His wife. Christine.

I tried not to think of her. She was a figure of the past, I could not think of her. And yet I did anyway, simply to humor myself.

More and more years went by and my little angel gave birth to many beautiful baby angels. She found a balance between her babies and her opera; I was proud of her. I held all my 'grandchildren' in my arms only hours after each of them were born. It is an amazing thing to hold a baby that had only recently been in a woman's stomach.

And Algernon was the perfect son in law. He visited me often, asking upon my health, even giving me a small share of his earnings. I suspect that was because of Angel's troublesome curiosity of my money, which had been running low for some time.

It is difficult to explain why time went by so fast. But it did, and my little angel was becoming a middle-aged woman, and my grandchildren were becoming bright young adults. Yet I was still alive.

"You will live much longer than I, my friend," Nadir told me as he lay in his bed, dying. "You are supposed to live longer. That is our fate. Isn't that what you said, my old friend?"

I smiled softly, "You have always been there for me, Nadir. And I would always refuse your help. I am so sorry, I should have taken your help. Thank you for everything you have done, my friend. You may rest."

He smiled back at me, "A rest? Yes, I need a long rest."

Nadir Khan died in the November of the year 1913. I mourned for him, but felt that it was simply his time. Angel told me that when we are ready to go, we shall go. I believed her; she was so wise of the world in her young age. She would come visit me almost every day, in between her children and opera. I don't know how she did it, but she did.

The years continued on, and the Opera Populaire went out of business. I decided not to have much information about it; I didn't want to know. I simply played with my grandchildren in the Rose mansion and wrote my music for my Angel to sing. But my age was becoming more and more obvious. Since my first attack, I had survived two more. The doctor called me an immortal.

"I have seen too many younger than yourself die of heart attacks. Even famous people die of heart attacks!" he told me, with his young, thirty year old voice.

I laughed, "Please. Who famous has died of a heart attack?"

The doctor shook his head, "Oh, there was that old man down in Paris, I can't remember his name. Not very famous I guess. . . Oh, my father was saying something about some Madam Viscount De Chagny."

I froze. "What?"

"Madam De Chagny, the opera singer?" the doctor asked. When I didn't respond, he shook his head, "Well, I guess she was just an opera singer; not really that famous. Now, you take care of yourself. Try not to exert yourself too much. We'll meet again next month."

"Wait," I said, still frozen. "When did she pass away?"

The doctor shook his head again, "Didn't you know? She passed away about two years ago." And then he left.

My world seemed to stop. Christine had been dead for two years and I hadn't known. I suddenly had the extreme urge to run to the Opera Populaire, to find her there, waiting for me, young and beautiful. But she wasn't young and beautiful anymore! She was probably only bones by then, long gone, buried six feet under the ground.

I couldn't breathe. _Oh God, _I thought. _Christine is dead. She's dead. _I got up, crammed a ring and a rose into my pocket, ran out the door and began to run as fast as I could toward Paris. It was a very long run, and in my old age, I could barely walk, but I kept running. I didn't care anymore. I just had to know if it was true. If she was really dead.

The forest seemed to never end. Why, oh why couldn't I get there faster? Pictures of my life flashed before my eyes. _The Devil's child! Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me, enter at last, master! This man, this thing, is not your father! How long should we two wait before we're one? My friend, you are making an un-wise decision. But Master, you are crying! Come to me angel of music. Why do you wear this horribly uncomfortable looking thing? I love you Papa. Didn't you know? **She passed away about two years ago.**_

Suddenly I was there, at the cemetery. I ran to the large DAAE tomb, my eyes scanned over every headstone. My breath came in short ragged gasps but I did not care. I had to find her. Where was she? Maybe she was actually still alive, and the doctor had been talking about somebody else?

And then, _Christine De Chagny. Loving wife and mother. _I found her. I took huge, heavy steps toward the headstone. A picture of her was on it. She was so beautiful, so young. I knew then, that I would always remember her looking that way.

I pulled out the ring and the rose and stared at them for a good long while. The ring was the same one she had given back to me that night was disaster. That night of despair. That night when I rode away from all civilization and human connection. I kneeled before her, placed the ring around the stem of the red rose, and laid it on the side of her headstone. And then I wept. "Christine," I whispered huskily. "I. . . love. . . you. . ." and I sat there and cried.

Slowly, I could hear an engine coming. I looked up and saw a car approaching. Quickly, but painfully, I took one last look at Christine's face, and crunched my way through the fall leaves; out of sight of the man approaching in a wheelchair.

I watched him cautiously. He stood up from his wheelchair and placed a musical box with a monkey on top in front of Christine's headstone. I realized suddenly, that that had been my little music box. It sang Masquerade on its little symbols. Tears continued down my face and I realized who the man was. The Viscount.

He looked at my rose and ring, glanced around the cemetery as if looking for me, and then rode away in his vehicle. I swallowed, and nearly had to crawl back to Christine's grave. I looked up at the sky, my breath coming in even shorter gasps. The edges of my sight began to fade away, but I could still see the full moon. She was still there, in the sky, staring at me. Why, oh why did she find me so interesting? Why could she never leave me alone?

I looked back at the grave. "Christine," I told her in between breaths. "I no longer wear half of the moon upon my face. Now I really am an angel of music." I swallowed once more and took in another deep breath, as the world seemed to fade into nothing. _To die_. Every muscle of my body became relaxed and I fell upon the ground, my head resting upon the foot of Christine's headstone. _To sleep_. I closed my eyes with a smile. _Perchance to dream_. Finally. I could rest.

_- Goodnight -_

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**Disclaimer: **I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.


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